


You Don’t Know Me

by MapleleafCameo



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anxiety, Bad Bob and Alicia are world famous singers, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eric sings, Jack plays piano, Jack used to sing, Jack’s jealous, M/M, Music, Panic Attacks, Torch Songs, night club, stage fright
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-04-29 04:02:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14464569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleleafCameo/pseuds/MapleleafCameo
Summary: Jack’s night club band, who specialize in torch songs and jazz, just lost their lead vocalist to The Appalachian Trail. Literally. Johnson has gone on the Trail to find himself and study folk music. Enter Eric Bittle, amazing singer full of life and talent.Only thing is, Eric wants to add modern songs to the band’s set list and Jack doesn’t like anything after 1965.Jack may also harbour some feelings of jealousy over Eric’s talent.





	1. Enter Eric Bittle

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this on my phone because I’m away from home and don’t have my computer or iPad or notebooks because why would I have my notebooks. *massive eye roll* so I can’t work on any of my stories that aren’t finished. I will try to fix any mistakes when I get home:)
> 
> So here you go!  
> Thanks to mattsloved1 for only laughing at me a bit.

“I’d like to sing ‘That Old Black Magic’.   
  
   
  
Jack sighed. Every singer so far had sung the same song.  
  
   
  
Until today, he rather liked that old chestnut, especially slowed down, rather than the usual fast tempo most wanted to sing it, but then he tended to prefer songs torchy.  
  
   
  
Good thing, considering.  
  
   
  
After getting her key, Jack didn’t bother looking through the music the young woman had handed him. She nodded at him, and he began the intro. He barely glanced at the piano keys. He played it pretty straightforward, not adding any embellishments. That could wait until after she finished. His test would be to see how flexible her musical skills were.  
  
   
  
After ten other auditions, she was the best. Her rendition was flawless.   
  
   
  
Boring.   
  
   
  
No heart.  
  
   
  
No soul.  
  
   
  
No point wasting his time testing her abilities. She had none.  
  
   
  
With a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes, Jack said, “Thank you. We’ll let you know.”  
  
   
  
Lardo, sitting at one of the nightclub tables, rolled her eyes in Jack’s direction. Fortunately, the young woman didn’t see. He didn’t like to be rude even when there was no soul. “Is that it? Please tell me that’s it.”  
  
   
  
“There’s one more to go. He said he’d be a few minutes late.”  
  
   
  
“He?”  
  
   
  
“Yes, he. Bittle. Eric Bittle.”  
  
   
  
Playing with the keys, he brought a   complicated ‘Stormy Weather’ to life, liquid notes dancing in the air. “Huh. Well if he’s anything like Johnson then maybe we’ll have a new singer.”  
  
   
  
Johnson had left three weeks before to find himself on the Appalachian Trail searching for folk songs and, he said, to bring in new blood into the story.  
  
   
  
A bright patch of light at the back of the club alerted them to someone entering. Lardo and Jack watched a young man make his way between tables, flushed and slightly excitable. Dressed in pressed trousers, button-down shirt, with a jaunty bow tie and jacket. His hair was gelled, shaved at the sides, every hair in place despite his flustered entrance.  
  
   
  
“I am so sorry to be late. You would not believe the traffic. No excuses, my mama would say. This is totally on me. I promise I’m never this late.”  
  
   
  
Jack chewed his lip as he watched the young man, this Eric Bittle, pass his performance resume to Lardo, who glanced at it. Unflappable Lardo raised her brows, turned to Jack and mouthed, “Wow!” To Bittle, she said, “thank you.”  
  
   
  
Bittle pulled his music from his briefcase and handed it to Jack. “I’d like to sing this for y’all. It’s not traditional, but I think you’ll like it.”  
  
   
  
He stepped to the mic and looked over at Jack who looked through the music, frowning.  
  
   
  
Definitely not traditional. In fact, Jack had never heard of it, which meant it must be contemporary. Anything after 1965, Jack abhorred. Except for Burt Bacharach. Even most of the Beatles music he deemed as far too radical. Don’t get him started about the ‘70s.  
  
   
  
He spread the music out, flicking through it to check time changes. There were notes handwritten at the beginning, slow and sultry. That at least seemed promising.  
  
   
  
After adjusting the mic stand, Bittle held it reverently, lovingly. He winked at Jack as he played the first few notes.   
  
   
  
A rich voice, with a good range, classically trained to Jack’s ear, filled the small club. He caressed each word, his phrasing immaculate and Jack felt impressed even though everything about his style and music choice went against the grain.  
  
   
  
 _Remember those walls I built_  
  
 _Well, baby, they're tumbling down._  
  
 _And they didn't even put up a fight._  
  
 _They didn't even make a sound._  
  
 _I found a way to let you win._  
  
 _But I never really had a doubt._  
  
 _Standing in the light of your halo._  
  
 _I got my angel now_  
  
   
  
Jack finished the piece, his brow still furrowed. The young man turned to look at him. His face which had been open and carefree when he started and full of the perfect amount of angst and feeling while he sang, now appeared guarded.  
  
   
  
Nodding slowly and reluctantly, admitting that this Eric Bittle was the best singer he’d heard all day, the best singer he’d heard in a long time and frankly could probably sing circles around his mother, Alicia, whom he considered to be the best singer ever, Jack decided he had no choice.  
  
   
  
“That was,” _amazing, impressive, made me want to give up on my career and never play again because you’re so fucking incredible_ , “that was, good. I, uh, would like to have you come back tonight and try out with the rest of the band. Just to see how you fit,” Like a glove. “If that’s okay.”   
  
   
  
Bittle’s face lit up, and Jack’s stomach did a weird complicated flip. He’d better not be getting sick. He could take any time off.  
  
   
  
“That would be great. Thank you, thank you so much!”  
  
   
  
Lardo spoke with Bittle for a few minutes, getting contact info, giving him a set list to look through, did he have a tux, assuring him there’d be no audience tonight, it was just a rehearsal.  
  
   
  
Jack continued to play softly not paying much attention. Much.   
  
   
  
Bittle left, and Lardo came over and leaned against the piano.  
  
   
  
“That kid? That kid was flat out the best singer I’ve heard, and I’ve heard you.”  
  
   
  
Jack grimaced. Lardo and Shitty were the only ones who knew he sang and they’d been told never to mention it. Ever.  
  
   
  
“He’ll do.”  
  
   
  
Lardo narrowed her eyes. “‘He’ll do.’ He says. Jesus, Jack. Did you hear him? Even I could tell you were impressed.”  
  
   
  
Shrugging, Jack stood and stretched. “I’m reserving judgment for now. Sure he can sing contemporary songs I’ve never heard of but what about classics? You know he has to fit in. Let’s see how he does tonight.” He put his jacket on, straightened his tie and made his way to the door to lock up.  
  
   
  
“Come on,” he said. “I’ll buy you lunch. I know you’re rolling your eyes.”   
  
   
  
Lardo muttered something about getting his ass out of the last century, but he ignored it. _Why should he?_ He thought with no real indignation. _That’s when all the good music was_.


	2. Bittle Sings Fever. Jack May Notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks mattsloved1 for looking this over.
> 
> Here are the two songs sung by Bitty in this chapter.
> 
> [Fever](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jug9ff2BJYA) sung by Little Willie John
> 
> [A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2hTsUwmXavk) sung by Frank Sinatra

Jack stood up from the piano, held his hand out to Bittle, a tight smile on his face.

 

“Thank you for coming. We’re going to run through a few numbers to see how you fit in with the rest of the band. If we think you do, then the job’s yours. Does that sound fair?”

 

“Oh my yes. More than. Thank you so much for giving me this opportunity.”

 

“Yes. Well, we shall see.” He frowned at Bittle, looked him up and down and then abruptly turned to introduce him to the other members of the Defensemen. “You’ve met Lardo.” She saluted Bittle and waved. “She’s our manager and runs the bar side of The Haus.”

 

Next, a young man with longish hair and a magnificent ‘stash. “This is, umm, Shitty. He plays bass.” Shitty stood and held out a hand to Bittle. “Brah! How the hell are you? Welcome the fuck into our musical fold and don't let Jack’s sour manner get you down. He’s the best mother fucking pianist you’ll ever sing with.”

 

Jack rolled his eyes but ignored him. Bittle put his hand on his chest and blinked a bit at Shitty’s moniker, but shook his hand gamely. “This is Adam Birkholtz. He’s our brass man. Plays a mean trumpet, and ‘bone when needed.

 

Adam high fived Bittle. “Duuuude! Call me Holster.”

 

“Justin Oluransi, lead guitar.”

 

“Ransom, my man. Jackie boy and I representing the True North.”

 

“Chris Chow, main drummer.”

 

“Pleasure to meet you. Don't touch my drums, please. It’s bad luck.”

 

Bittle assured him he would not.

 

“Its nothing personal, it’s just…”

 

“No, don't you worry. I’ve worked with a lot of drummers.” Bittle smiled.

 

Chris cleared his throat. “Oh good. It’s just that some people don't seem to understand that.” His voice got a bit louder towards the end as he shot a glance toward Hoster.

 

“Not my fault your high hat fell over.”

 

Jack said “Can we talk about this later? This is Snowy, percussion as well and backs Chris up.”

 

Snowy nodded in his direction, with a smack of his bongos.

 

“And Alexi Mashkov, lighting and sound.”

 

“Hello! Please to call me Tater.”

 

“Okay, Bittle. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

 

Everyone took their places, and Bittle stood at the mic.

 

Jack cleared his throat and settled behind the piano, shrugging out of his jacket. “Okay. It’s a pretty standard set up. We play about ten to twelve songs then we break for fifteen. We usually do about four sets on Friday and Saturday and three on Sunday. Stick to the list. I don't mix the songs up too much. Occasionally, I’ll add a different song to the lineup, but I’ll let you know the day before. We keep it tight and move along. Sound good?”

 

Bittle’s eyes widened a bit, but he nodded and said. “I’m game.”

 

“We’ll probably set up for a few instrumentals in between some vocals until you get your groove. I don't want you straining your voice. I expect you to condition and warm up. We lost a singer a while back who did not. She overdid it and couldn't work for months. Okay. Are you good to start with something slow or fast?

 

“I prefer slow but whatever you want to do.”

 

“You looked at the practice list Lardo gave you?”

 

“Yes. I did have some questions.”

 

“Bring them up as we hit the songs.”

 

“Okay,” Bittle looked uncertain, but Jack needed to get started. He could feel the itch in his fingers and his brain.

 

“We’ll start with ‘Fever’. Bass, Shits and finger snaps, Bittle. Brushes please, Chowder, easy on trumpet and guitar. I’ll come in on the second verse. Right then? Ready one, two…What is it, Bittle?”

 

Hand raised, he said, “I was wondering which version, is all.”

 

“Which version?”

 

“Well, er, yes. There’s like a million versions, but there are two standards in the lyrics. Most people sing Miss Peggy Lee’s, but the original by Little Willie John is interesting as well. Do you want the Peggy Lee version or the original? I tend to prefer Willie John, but as Beyoncé covered Miss Lee’s, I know that one really well. I’m good with either.”

 

Jack’s mouth fell open, impressed in spite of himself. Hardly anyone sang the Little Willie John version. Shame that, because he also liked it better but he’d almost always played the Lee version because that’s what everyone knew. Huh. “Oh. Well, I guess we can do Little Willie John. Don't worry, we’ll follow.” Jack said it more calmly than he felt. He didn't usually relinquish control. He played a few bars to get warmed up, stopped, looked hard at Bittle and asked, “Do you know the James Cotton version?”

 

Bittle nodded. “I’m not as familiar.”

 

“Willie John it is.”

 

He ignored Holster’s comment to Ransom. “Great, there’re two of them.”

 

“Ready? One, two and go.”

 

Bittle began snapping his fingers with Shitty on bass and Ransom sang backup.

 

_“You never know how much I love ya_

_Never know how much I care_

_When you put your arms around me_

_I get a feelin' that's so hard to bear_

_You give me fever_

_When you kiss me_

_Fever when you hold me tight_

_Fever (fever, burn through) in the mornin'_

_An' fever all through the night.”_

 

Jack came in on the next verse with Chowder’s soft drum and Ransom bringing it.

 

Bittle swayed through the song, wrapped in the pain of all-consuming lust, hands running down his body, face enraptured and full of passion.

 

As the song ended, everyone eyed each other and looked at Jack.

 

Shitty yelled out “Whoo hoo, baby!”

 

Jack swallowed hard. The thrill of electricity that had run through the whole band was incredible. The hairs on his arms stood up. He shifted uncomfortably on the bench. “Well, that was, that was pretty good. Okay, how about…”

 

“Pretty good? Fuck Jack! Try not to compliment the motherfucker. We wouldn't want to let it go to his head. Fucking incredible is what it was. Holy shit, Bittle. Where’d such a big voice come from out of such an itty, bitty, dude? I think I’m going to have to kiss you that made me so freakin’ horny.”

 

Bittle blushed, and Jack scowled. It was more than good, but for some reason, Jack didn't want to say. A confusion of emotions kicked up inside his head. “Um, let’s try something else. How are you with big band songs from WWII?”

 

Bittle shrugged.

 

“Okay. Do you know ‘Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square’?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Jack kept his voice level, not looking up from the keyboard. “Do you have a preferred version?”

 

Bittle’s eyebrows rose. “No, I do not Mr. Zimmermann. My Mama likes the Sinatra version, but I’m good with whatever you wish.”

 

Jack nodded. “All right then, Sinatra it is. One, two… go!”

 

_That certain night_

_The night we met_

_There was magic abroad in the air_

_There were angels dining at the Ritz_

_And a nightingale sang in Berkeley square_

_I may be right I may be wrong_

_But I'm perfectly willing to swear_

_That when you turned and smiled at me_

_A nightingale sang in Berkeley square_

 

Again Bittle sang with his entire body, his whole being.

 

“Duuuuuude!”

 

“All right, thank you, Shitty, you don't have to comment after every song.”

 

They took their time through several other songs. Pausing to work on phrasing or balancing the instruments, Jack hadn’t intended to do a full rehearsal tonight, as he didn't want to tax Bittle too much. They had a couple of more practices before Friday anyway.

 

After Bittle sang a couple of Bacharach songs with Holster soloing on the trumpet, Jack called an end to the evening.

 

As everyone packed up their instruments, Jack approached Bittle, “I’d like to try you out this Friday. What do you think?”

 

Bittle paled a bit. “Oh, okay. Um, sure that would be great.”

 

“Good work, everyone. Be here tomorrow at two. We can rehearse before Lardo opens up the club for the night and then we’ll go all out Friday night.”

 

Jack lowered the cover of the keyboard, slung his jacket over his shoulders and left, trying not to think about Bittle swaying with the music or the way he closed his eyes and poured his heart into every single goddamn note.

 

He may have had trouble sleeping.

 

oOo

 

 

Rehearsal went spectacularly well and then Friday night came. Jack almost, almost, had a spring in his step. He didn’t want to get his hopes up, but Bittle brought a lot of promise, and he felt this could really work well.

 

Maybe he could finally prove something.

 

To people.

 

He greeted Lardo at the door as he went in. She shook her head at him, and he sighed. “So not a full house.”

 

“Nope.”

 

Several weeks had gone by since Johnson left and even before then, they hadn't ever hit capacity. It would take time to build up an audience to where they’d left off.

 

But maybe, maybe Bittle would be their lucky charm.

 

He walked into the cramped dressing room and greeted his band.

 

Bittle hid in back, behind Holster, in a really nice, fitted tux. Very fitted. He seemed quiet.

 

A knock on the door and Lardo entered to say Tater was good to go. They trouped out onto the small platform that served as the stage.

 

Lardo’s voice came over the house speakers.

 

“Ladies and gentleman, returning to the Haus stage after a short absence, let’s give it up for The Defensemen.”

 

A smattering of applause, not unenthusiastic but certainly not over the top. The lights came up and Jack, playing the opening bars of ‘Mack the Knife’ over and over, spoke softly into his mic and introduced each member of the band, who joined in one at a time.

 

“And now ladies and gentleman, I would like to introduce our latest member, on lead vocals, Eric Bittle.”

 

Eric came out onto the stage. He wiped his brow a bit and stood in front of the mic. Jack played the into one more time, getting ready for Bittle to come in just like in rehearsal.

 

Bittle opened his mouth, paused, turned green and ran off stage.

 

A smattering of laughter welled up from the audience, and Jack scowled at his keyboard. The band didn’t stop playing. Jack didn't address the disappearance of his singer.

 

After the set finished and they made their way back to the dressing room, Jack stormed in and up to Bittle who sat hunched over a waste paper basket, washed out and trembling.

 

“What the hell was that?”

 

“I’m, I’m so, so sorry,” Bittle squeaked. “I get stage fright. I thought I was over it. Honestly. I am so sorry to let y’all down.” He looked miserable, but Jack could hear the voice in his head telling him that he’d fucked up once again by pinning his hopes on a green singer.

 

“This isn’t a joke! A singer with stage fright is no good to me. See yourself out.” He left abruptly and went out the back exit. The fresh night air washed over him, but his temper still rolled through his gut, his conscience showing him Bittle’s face crumpling over and over.

 

He would have hit his fist against the wall if he’d guarantee it wouldn’t break his hand and effectively end his carrier.

 

‘Maybe I should.”

 

He heard the door open and knew who stood there. He always had his back.

 

“Jack,” Shitty said.

 

“Don't Shitty, just don't.”

 

“Look brah, I know it’s fucking disappointing but don't give up on the kid. He’s got the best set of pipes I’ve ever heard. Fuck. He may even be better than…”

 

“Don't say it.”

 

He could see Shifty nod out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah, no, I won't, but come on. Who the hell hasn't had nerves chew them up? You know we’ve all been there starting out. This kid's so fresh he ain’t even got rid of the new smell yet. Like fine Corinthian leather seats.”

 

Jack laughed in spite of himself “Fuck Shitty, I don't understand you sometimes. But okay yeah. Tell him he can try again. If he can't make it tonight, I’ll meet him tomorrow early and I’ll, I’ll think of something.”

 

Shitty hugged him and went back inside.

 

Jack kicked back at the wall behind him with his heel, ran his hand through his hair and let out a scream of frustration.

 

Feeling slightly better, he went back in for the next set.

 


End file.
